The Bitterness of Myrhh
by Ebony-Ink-Stain
Summary: "Those who died for you believe that they were working toward saving the world. The question is, can you trust them, believe that they knew what they were sacrificing for?"


You watch as he enters the church, the stranger in leather. The bags under his eyes are painted thick, dark as the dreams that must be in his head. He walks like Atlas, so much that you could almost hear his back groaning from the weight. As he slips into the pew, you notice that his clothes are wrinkled, and there's an old ketchup stain on his shirt. You really shouldn't ask what's wrong with him. After all, you really shouldn't be there either.

Still, he looks so sad and pathetic…

"You okay?" you ask, waltzing up to him. He stares up at you, and you catch that sardonic smirk before it disappears out of thin politeness. You think about what he sees. Tiny little waif, short evergreen hair with a light curl, looks like she's only tasted the darkness after lights out and bedtime stories. Eh, fair wager by looks alone.

"Yeah, I'm great," he grunts. "They could tramp me on the stage as an underwear model looking like this." Sarcasm detected. It's probably best you go at this point. He doesn't seem to want company. Before you can walk out of the sanctuary, he pipes up.

"What's the point?" he mutters. "Everyone around me dies anyway. Maybe I should give up too." He probably didn't mean to say it out loud. Lack of sleep caused a slip of the tongue. Still, a response escapes your lips before you can hold it back. A thousand years of wisdom can't be tamed.

"Great things can't be achieved without sacrifice." His lips curl into a snarl.

"I didn't ask you," he growled. "What do you know about sacrifice?" His voice raises in volume and pitch, quivering like the tears trying to escape from his eyes. His losses have been great, you realize. You've seen the eyes of those who have walked the glass and coals of Hell. He is one of them. His eyes avert your gaze, and you shrug.

"I don't know very much of it, but I have seen men sacrifice their lives for great things. Power, Peace. Some achieve their goals, some don't. It's up to you to decide how much you want to risk." The years in your voice are too palpable. He knows something's different, something unnatural. He has a gun in his back pocket, probably filled with salt pellets or silver bullets. You've seen his kind before. Still, he doesn't reach for his gun. He's too desperate for answers. The tears threatening to spill down his face are evidence of that.

"What about people that sacrifice for you?" he storms, throwing himself out of the pew. "What about people that give their lives, sacrifice their lives for you?!" He's toe-to-toe with you now, tears free-falling. His voice breaks from the pain. "Too many people have died for me, and it wasn't pretty little shot gun deaths like the movies. It was torture. Burned eyes. Stabbed to death. Blew themselves up—" Here he stops, faltering onto the pew. Their sacrifice was bringing him down to his knees.

"I'm not worth it!" he sobs, fist slamming on the ground. "I'm. Not. Worth. Their. Damn. Lives." Here he collapses, weeping onto the church floor. His body against the carpet, his heart unable to bear his grief. "I just want it to stop," he pleads, gasps. "I can't—I can't take my friends dying for me anymore."

Suddenly, you realize who he is, this man in the leather jacket. You bend down next to him, place a tender hand under his chin. You force his eyes, bleary and tired, to stare up at you. He's begging for escape. Without words, just the agony in his eyes. His body trembles under your touch. You stare up at the altar behind you.

"There was Someone, long ago, who sacrificed his life, and others followed suit. Their bones were crushed, they were fed to lions, they were sawn in half…yet they believed with each sacrifice, they were saving the world. Bringing lives to Glory. Perhaps they were, still are." Here you fade, glance down at him.

"Those who died for you believe that they were working toward saving the world. The question is, can you trust them, believe that they knew what they were sacrificing for?" You smile at him, stroke his wet cheek. "Every life is worth the sacrifice of the King. Don't sell yourself short, little Winchester."

He starts at his name, but before he has time to argue, the doors begin to rumble. Looks like your time as come.

"Remember what the angels have forgotten, little one," you whisper. Suddenly your face splits into a grin that could rival the Joker in its width. "Speaking of which…"

You hold out your arms in front of you, and two swords, blazing as you grip their hilts in your hands. Shining from the Tungsten, you swing one of the blades around your head. You can feel your bodying tingling, the light shining from every pore of your being. Looking back, you see the man still on his knees, squinting through red, puffy eyes. He's shaking his head, trying to convince you that his life isn't worth it. He's not worth it. You laugh, because you've watched too many men and women face death with joy and open arms. You know what you're dying for.

You're dying for a broken, scarred world, just as war-torn and weary as the young man behind you. You're dying for people that might never know who you are, just like Dean is.

Just like He did.

"Run, Dean Winchester," you call to him. "Run, and remember what the angels have forgotten." He shakes his head, trying to stand and face them with you. He's brave, that stupid soul. He's brave and good and never realizes it. With a sigh, you throw your sword in the air and snap your fingers. Before the hilt returns to your hand, Dean's body dissolves, whisked away to somewhere safe. To someone who knows his worth, and who will fight tooth and nail to help him remember that too. The pounding grows in intensity, the door is about to break. You slide your legs into a fighter's stance. This is your last stand.

"Kamikaze, b******."


End file.
